


whatever it takes

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, Porn With Plot, Pre-Room Where It Happens, Yet Another Hamilton Blowjob Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 14:37:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5167520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander Hamilton isn't one to do things by halves, and Thomas Jefferson is a man of his word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	whatever it takes

**Author's Note:**

> a few disclaimers:  
> i. so many of these fics popped up while i was writing this, and it was terrifying. i hope i did ok.  
> ii. i haven't written anything (let alone smut) in so long... sorry.

Alexander Hamilton isn’t one to do things by halves.  
  
That much is obvious the moment you lay eyes on him: oft overdressed, the man speaks rapidly, as if a single breath can barely contain words enough to enunciate the very span of his thought; he stands taller than his short stature and his eyes are dark and intense, skittering over a room as if making an assessment of his place within it from the moment he enters.  
  
Ambition rests on his brow and alights in his eyes, promising and determined as it burns.  
  
It’s this burning ambition which makes Thomas Jefferson certain—despite telltale desperations manifesting themselves in the untidy knot at his throat and the few, stray wisps which have fallen loose from his tied hair—that Alexander Hamilton is nothing short of serious in his preposition.  
  
 _Whatever it takes._  
  
The promise of his words hang suspended in the tempered silence of Jefferson’s consideration, strikingly aware of the shift in dynamic which had taken place when Hamilton sunk to his knees—Jefferson can't say he's displeased with the development.  
  
He turns for all response, slipping his long coat from narrow shoulders to hang upon the back of a chair. His motions are paced and deliberate; Hamilton doesn't move.  Jefferson can all but feel his companion’s eyes as they follow him, silent as the Virginian ensures the large, oaken doors of his office are locked. _After all, he hasn't said no._

“There will be questions,” he muses. Jefferson's lips curl, long fingers drumming against the dark carvings of the chair; his gaze, cast down on Hamilton, flickers to the man's mouth. “Speculations. If you were to change my mind, could I be certain––”

“I have every faith you can handle it,” Hamilton cuts in, in a voice far too even for a man bargaining from his knees, “with a story I’ve no doubt you’ll craft to your advantage.”

Rolling the sleeves of his shirt as he crosses the space to where Hamilton kneels, Jefferson weighs the odds of this being a terrible idea. The promise of immunity is there, of the ability to make public whatever version of events he likes. Half-truths which will save himself the damning which would follow should the whole story become known—whatever comes to pass. It's a deal he shouldn’t make, and yet, how many times will he witness Alexander Hamilton on his knees like this...

The rest of their exchange remains unspoken as long, slender fingers twist into Hamilton’s hair, and he needs no further prompting than the grip Jefferson keeps, dark strands slipping slowly loose from where it had been tied with the force of his hold. Deft fingers find the button clasped front of Jefferson’s breeches and there’s no pause, no time for reconsiderations as Hamilton takes his cock into his fist. The gain and slide of rough hand over his heated flesh sends Jefferson’s blood south, hardening even before the kneeling man takes him unabashedly into his mouth.

 

* * *

 

Finally, a use for Alexander Hamilton’s ever-running mouth that Jefferson can agree with.

Hamilton doesn’t hesitate: free hand moving to grip Jefferson’s hip for leverage, he’s almost eager as he takes the Virginian deeper into the heat of his mouth and tugs against the hold kept on his hair, unable to hide the half-swallowed groan elicited by the tightening of Jefferson’s fist—not when he can _feel_ it around his cock.

The kneeling man’s fist stays the base of Jefferson’s cock as his mouth, all wet, soft heat, envelops his tip; Hamilton's tongue works too precisely, too confidently for him to not have done this before.

A sort of rhythm develops with what little give Jefferson will allow from his tight grip—Hamilton’s calloused palm sliding along spit-slicked hardness with each upward motion of his mouth. Jefferson’s own head has tipped back, jaw slackened just enough for the occasional rasp of breath or muttered curse to fall freely.

He keeps his eyes up. He doesn’t want to see the flush of exertion and lack of breath creeping up on Hamilton’s cheeks; or the occasional flutter of heavy lidded eyes as his tongue works to slowly bring him undone; or— _God_ —the utterly indecent way his lips must look wrapped around his cock...

But then he can feel the hot flutter of Hamilton’s throat, the brush of his nose against the base of his cock as Hamilton takes the Virginian as deep as he can, and Jefferson’s hips buck. A coarse, wavering groan leaves him and is echoed in Hamilton’s surprised choke, the action causing the kneeling man to gag and pull back off his cock with laboured breath and glassy eyes, his lips reddened and shining with spit.

Jefferson can’t help but look—and maybe it makes the illicit bargaining a little too real, but the turn of his stomach at the thought of their exchange is all but lost to the flush of heat which rises as he takes in the sight of the debauched Alexander Hamilton. Swollen lips and dark eyes, his hair falling into his face and neckcloth barely remaining tied, the Virginian is certain he’ll never survive facing him in another Cabinet meeting without seeing this in his mind. Their eyes meet and the heat in his gut turns to a tight twisting, and Jefferson wonders how many powerful men have seen Hamilton like this—is _this_ how the bastard, orphan immigrant rose so far above his station?

The thought simultaneously worsens matters and means much less when Hamilton’s hand is back around his cock, tongue tracing a daring stripe along underside to tip and provoking a lewd groan from the Virginian—the rules were broken the moment Hamilton fell to his knees, so why does every shaken moan pulled from him from that point make Jefferson feel like a further boundary has been overstepped? Who secures his fate sooner—he who offers the deal, or he whose morals do not prevent him from _accepting?_

His hand finds its way back to Hamilton’s hair and he holds tight, lip caught between his teeth and Jefferson knows whatever Hamilton’s tongue is doing is going to be the death of him. The Virginian tugs at Hamilton’s dark hair, words drying on his lips as the man takes the cue without need for spoken direction. Heat enveloping Jefferson’s cock once more, his grip is less a guide than a means of keeping Hamilton in place. Jefferson is met with no resistance as he fucks into Hamilton’s mouth, uncertain if the new force to each shallow thrust is driven by that hot desire which has settled low in his gut or acceptance of the fact that he is making a deal with the devil—perhaps both.

* * *

 

When Jefferson comes he doesn’t look  at Hamilton. Head tipped back, he can feel each rasping breath as it stutters from his throat, drawn out and littered with low curses. His pulse thrums, his body feels like it's been set alight and he’s all too aware of the fact that Hamilton swallows without hesitation—if he had the presence of mind perhaps Jefferson would remind himself that the man is kept still by the grip he holds in his hair, or that perhaps Hamilton knows it’s the most practical option for their circumstances (such messes cannot be left for slaves to find), rather than dwelling on the practiced ease with which Hamilton takes him.

Jefferson trembles through his release—a hand, freed from Hamilton’s hair, grips the nearest piece of furniture to keep himself up on unsteady legs, and he keeps from crying out lest the noise reach the ears of curious domestics. And then the deal is done.

Hamilton sucks him dutifully clean, sits back and rises to his feet slowly, hands already smoothing his hair back into its neat ponytail; Jefferson tucks himself away, re-buttons his breeches and unrolls his sleeves, breathing hard.

They don’t speak until Jefferson has placed a glass on the table by Hamilton’s side, pouring the man a drink—composure regained, he doesn’t make one himself, the sour taste in his own mouth rather less literal.

“I’ll talk to Madison and arrange a venue for our meeting.” He says eventually, watching as Hamilton downs the mouthful of whiskey and rises, their negotiations finished. Jefferson turns without another glance back at the immigrant. “Oh and, Hamilton––close the doors on your way out.”


End file.
